To The End of Reckoning
by i am a mango
Summary: Scorpius is a natural-born liar. He tells the truth once, to help Rose, and it backfires, destroying her family and forcing Scorpius to face all his lies. (Re-edit of Telling the Truth) RW/SM ASP/OC


******This is a revamp of an old story I wrote, ****__****Telling the Truth********, because I realized that I'd made a lot of errors with plot and been generally pretty stupid. This is an edited and updated version of that, and will hopefully update on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The first three chapters are completely finished and I have 18 chapters of material to edit from, so I'm not going to stop writing halfway through for lack of ideas the way I did last time.**

******(Also if you read this before, I'm taking the story down but keeping all the reviews for reference on the critiques I was given. I was going to just finish it, but when I saw so many errors I wanted to do the story right, so it's being redone.)**

******Trigger warning for abuse.**

**Chapter One: Rose Weasley**

Even at three in the morning, St. Mungo's didn't slow down. Healers rushed past in varying shades of exhausted, green robes whipping around them with purposeful fervor. None of them let their eyes rest on us for long; they might pause for a second, but sped away the second recognition hit.

There was a slight creak as a door down the hallway opened, and somehow that, among the flurry of noises and movement was what made Hugo jump. His hands clenched over his knees, fingers burying themselves in his robes with such force that I could make out a slight tear in the blue trim.

I followed his eyes up to the door and squinted at the hand pushing it open. It wasn't for us; a Healer leaned halfway out the door and inclined her head toward a wizened old man, muttering some bit of bad news to him. They both shot pitying looks at us as the Healer retreated into the room again.

"This isn't going to be good," Hugo whispered at the ceiling, and I couldn't decide whether to agree or laugh at him. Of course it wasn't; we weren't going to be pulled out of school and dragged to the hospital in the middle of the night for something good.

Even at three in the morning, St. Mungo's didn't slow down. Healers rushed past in varying shades of exhausted, green robes whipping around them with purposeful fervor. None of them let their eyes rest on us for long; they might pause for a second, but they sped away the second recognition hit.

There was a slight creak as a door down the hallway opened, and somehow that, among the flurry of noises and movement was what made Hugo jump. His hands clenched over his knees, fingers burying themselves in his robes with such force that I could make out a slight tear in the blue trim.

I followed his eyes up to the door and squinted at the hand pushing it open. It wasn't for us; a Healer leaned halfway out the door and inclined her head toward a wizened old man, muttering some bit of bad news to him. They both shot pitying looks at us as the Healer retreated into the room again.

"This isn't going to be good," Hugo whispered at the ceiling, and I couldn't decide whether to agree or laugh at him. Of course it wasn't; we weren't going to be pulled out of school and dragged to the hospital in the middle of the night for something good.

He opened his mouth, the beginnings of another inane comment beginning. I knew I wouldn't be able to hold back this time, I would snap at him because I needed him to shut up, I needed the hazy sounds of life around us to block out any real concern. But he halted mid-word, staring down the hallway.

Weaving between a circle of Healers who stood huddled around a clipboard, was Uncle Harry. His hair was sticking up in all directions, even more so than usual, and his glasses were folded into one of his hands, as if he had been in such a hurry that the capability of sight seemed unnecessary. The hems of his pajamas stuck out from beneath hastily buttoned robes; my eyes zeroed in on their pattern. Dad had given them to him for Christmas three years ago as a joke-Madame Malkins always put out new and awful Potterwear designs, and these had been so offensive that Dad couldn't resist.

Uncle Harry broke into a run, ten animated Harrys zooming around his ankles on broomsticks along the playing field of fabric. I stared at them all and tried to ignore my slowly dawning horror: if he was here, if he was still in his pajamas and sprinting down the hallway and looking for all the world like he was going to break down in tears, then this was far beyond the realm of 'not good.'

He reached us, still going to fast that he slid a little as he knelt in front of us, a hand on each of our knees. His attempt to smile was a poor one, pinching up his face in a way that made him look only exhausted and sad. "Rose, Hugo, have they told you anything?"

If I had spoken, my voice would have come out in nothing more than a squeak, so I bit my lip and shook my head. His face hardened, and almost all of my cold haughtiness melted into worry. His hands were shaking, actually shaking, and his eyes flicked back and forth between us as if expecting either Hugo or I to burst into sudden flame.

"Where are Mom and Dad?" Hugo asked, which I considered a surprisingly good question.

We watched his face work to control itself, watched the cogs shift in his mind until my thoughts finally clicked together and horror blossomed in my stomach. I knew. I knew exactly what this was, I knew why we'd been brought here and why Professor James had spent an hour pacing instead of sitting there with us, and why Uncle Harry was staring at us as if his best friends had gone and we were their only remnant. And the Healers must know too, of course they would have found out; Mom _worked_ there.

We were. I knew that with sudden certainty, that whatever had been teetering on the edge of happening for so long had finally happened.

"Er," Uncle Harry said finally, "They're not here. Hugo, I'm not actually supposed to tell you. Not until—not until we—" He broke off clumsily, frowning down at his knees.

"Mom's in the ward behind us, isn't she?" I said, and Hugo whipped his head around so fast I thought his neck might crack. "Dad's finally done it, hasn't he?"

Every line of Uncle Harry's body froze into statuesque stillness. "Finally?"

We shrugged in unison, and his confusion was co complete that I felt the horrible urge to laugh.

"Rose Weasley, what do you mean finally?"

I closed my eyes for a second, before I remembered that was a sign of weakness and opened them again. A flash of silvery hair took the opportunity to dash across the backs of my eyelids, sending a shudder down my spine. "Uncle Harry-" I said. My voice was so heavy that I didn't even have to pretend the explanation was too much. I couldn't get it out, couldn't say what needed to be said.

"If-" Hugo stuttered, and clenched both hands into a tight ball in his lap. "If he hurt Mum, then neither of us would be surprised, not even a bit."

Uncle Harry looked between us, searching for some sign that we were joking, or that that this was some elaborate word game whose meaning he couldn't pick up. But the contradiction did not rise to meet him, and he finally started speaking again, horror now raw in his voice.

"Yeah. Yeah, it was Ron."

Neither of us spoke, and a few seconds passed while Uncle Harry fidgeted with his glasses. He seemed to notice with odd suddenness that they weren't on his face, and slowly slid them over his ears.

"There's a trial scheduled in three days." He said. "They usually wouldn't schedule it so fast, but I pushed for it; Draco owed me anyw—"

"Draco?" Hugo asked, his voice dazed and slow, the syllables drawn out so far that they broke the word in two.

"Malfoy. Scorpius's father."

"What about Mum? Is she going to be okay?"

He bit his lip, but his voice had so utterly failed him that not even a single word sprung forth.

There was a brief, painful silence, and then the door opened again and Healer Finnigan had leaned out and looked at Uncle Harry meaningfully. He stood and followed the woman into the ward—actually, he didn't so much follow as shoved himself into the room. It was a closed ward, and this was ___strictly not allowed__, but this was Uncle Harry, and it seemed that the respect associated with destroying a madman did not fade, even after two decades._

We were only given the brief respite of a few breaths to recover before another pair of feet came crashing through the Healers and skidded to a stop in front of us, less gracefully than Uncle Harry, so that he had to put a hand out toward the floor to stop from falling over. He looked up at us, gray eyes shining, concern evident in every line of his posture.

Neville was still wearing his dressing gown, his round face drawn with worry as he bent toward Hugo. "Headmaster Ellison just told me. Are—are you two alright?"

All the tension in Hugo's shoulders released at once; The familiarity of Uncle Harry had been something, but his closeness to Dad had always drawn us back from truly trusting him.

I looked over to Hugo, my mouth half-open in answer, but the words had no chance to escape. Hugo's shoulders collapsed in on themselves, and his hands flew up over his face. Neville kneeled and wrapped his arms around him, and a knot worked itself into my chest. A vicious stab of anger flared inside of me, tightening the knot and pushing it up into my throat.

I was not going to cry.

Even though some minuscule part of me wanted to sob and be held the way Hugo was, it was outweighed by the anger and coldness. I told myself that Slytherins did not cry.

That was a lie, of course it was a lie. I'd been sent around to the first-year dormitories both of my years as prefect to check that the girls were alright on the first night. Three were crying into their pillows, and I'd made them tea and pretended to understand how badly they missed their parents.

It was, rather, that Rose Weasley did not cry. I wouldn't, I refused to. Not even if she was dead, I wouldn't cry then.

Leaning back, my head pressed against the wall, I let out a slow breath and did what I always did. I retraced the conversation, forced my mind into tangents and walked along their thin lines, pushed my thoughts down every possible avenue ___away_ from harsh reality. I imagined the trial Uncle Harry had mentioned, recalled every detail that ___Contested Trials of the Wizengamot_ had given regarding the courtroom. The chains on the chairs, the Dementors that had once waited outside the doors for their victims.

I disappeared into the recesses of my thoughts, sinking into consideration of everything that was not my mother. Quidditch—Albus and Scorpius were rabidly cheering the Chudley Cannons this season, even though they weren't expected to come anywhere close to winning. Prefect duty—Dominique thought it amusing to schedule Scorpius and me to patrol together on all possible occasions. The House Cup—Abraxas Malfoy had been caught six times out of bed after hours, losing fifty points for Slytherin, and giving Scorpius an excuse to harass me every time we walked by the house hourglasses. Scorpius—I couldn't stop every thought from turning into him, because he was the source of all this, the snake from which the venom had come.

A sudden tapping of fingers against wood destroyed my focus on distraction. My eyes opened, and Teddy was sitting in the vacant seat to my left. Albus and Lily stood a considerable way down the hall with Aunt Ginny, watching us as Aunt Ginny tried to talk to them. Clearly she was trying to keep them from further upsetting me or Hugo, but she'd already lost James and the other two looked as if they were about to come sprinting towards me. Her oldest son was already there, helplessly watching Hugo continue to sob into Neville's shoulder. He noticed the pressure of my eyes on him, and gave me a tight smile.

"How long have you been here?" I asked Teddy. I tried to estimate how much time my route of thought had consumed, but those kind of calculations only wasted time.

"Five minutes. You weren't hysterical, so we thought it better not to disturb you." His hands were shaking, just barely, and his eyes traced repeatedly over the pattern of floor tiling.

"James, Lily and Albus?"

"Came with me.I was near Hogwarts on Auror business, so they had me bring your cousins here."

I didn't reply, but his voice was relaxing enough that I could make myself listen without having to create any internal distraction.

"I—I told them what we know so far, and then Ellison had me Apparate the three of them here, one by one." The irrelevance confused me, and I wondered why he felt the need to tell me this. As if I cared how they'd gotten here. As if it mattered in any way.

"Have they told you anything?"

"What?" He glanced up to meet my eyes with slight alarm. "Oh. No, almost nothing. But then nobody really knows anything."

"Oh."

"Nobody seems to want to talk about your mother, though the universe has found it appropriate to give me every other variety of knowledge today," he said, his hair fading from black to mousy brown. He frowned more deeply at the floor. "Do you know Headmaster Ellison isn't allowed to make Portkeys? Apparently there was some incident when he was in his twenties, and—"

"Teddy." He could hear the snap of my voice, and knew that I'd recognized the manic desperation in his.

He sighed, but only managed silence for the better part of a minute. "Rosie, when the entirety of Hogwarts start sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night?"

The question was ridiculous.

I didn't sneak anywhere.

Hufflepuffs wouldn't have either; they avoided trouble, and Ravenclaws would rather have spent their time studying than rule-breaking. Slytherins didn't, by virtue of inability—we had won the House Cup five years in a row, and weren't about to lose it because some idiot wanted to steal food from the kitchens at one in the morning. All of the prefects set personal enchantments on the portrait hole, and only Slytherin was smart enough—and idiot enough—to get past them.

"Not everyone," I told Teddy, "Just Gryffindors and Abraxas Malfoy."

His face went an odd shade of gray, as if I had hit on a subject I was definitely not supposed to know about, and because that response was interesting enough to be distracting, I pushed the subject. "Ted, do you know Abraxas?"

"He's my cousin," Teddy said, his voice clipped. "So yeah, we've met."

"But you don't like him?

"Don't change the subject."

I feigned ignorance. "I don't remember it."

His sharp gaze caught me. "Like hell you don't remember it, Rose." But after a few seconds of my innocent stare, he sighed. "Breaking out of dormitories."

I shrugged and placated him; I could still work out the Abraxas issue while staying on subject. "Abraxas doesn't really count; nobody can quite figure out why he's in Slytherin. We figure that he just breaks out because he's bored. More of a Gryffindor type, really."

"His brother's in Gryffindor though?"

"Now you're changing the subject."

"I'm not, I'm going with the natural flow of conversation. Scorpius is in Gryffindor, Albus told me."

"We were talking about Abraxas." I added a smirk in, just to irritate him.

"We were talking about sneaking out of bed."

"Which Scorpius doesn't do."

"He's a Gryffindor, you said Gryffindors-"

"Ted, why don't you want to talk about Abraxas Malfoy?"

Teddy was almost green now, and down the hallway Albus had noticed and had begun to frown with a mixture of worry and frustration. The question of whether to come bolting toward us to stop the conversation was clear on his face, and after a full minute of uncomfortable silence during which Teddy stared at me, Albus put a hand on his mother's arm and said something comforting enough that she set him free from her questions.

"I'm allowed to not want to talk about people. For God's sake Rose, his family hates me," Teddy sniffed.

"If I recall correctly, you tried to change the subject by bringing up his brother. Not exactly convincing, are you?"

Albus considered this an appropriate time to insert himself into the conversation, and broke away from his mother to join us; he seated himself cross-legged on the floor before our chairs and leaned back, looking up into our faces.

"I did no such thing." The brightness of Teddy's voice shot up by a hundredfold, and he shot a nervous little glance to Albus.

"What such thing?" Albus asked, his eyes oddly wide and innocent. Al had never been good at manufactured emotion, and the combination of sitting in a hospital and discussing Abraxas Malfoy with our family turned him from slightly below average to abysmal.

"Oh, nothing." Teddy smiled, but it was too wide, and then he frowned to compensate for being in a hospital, and he and Albus were still trying to adjust their expressions when Aunt Ginny approached us with Lily in tow.

"What-"

They looked entirely confused, but the chance to ask questions was cut short. The ward door burst open again, and there was Uncle Harry, his face blotchy and glasses fogged from tears. Every ounce of reassurance I'd built through distraction drained out of me, and the amused air leaked from the room, helium from a popped balloon.

I could hear the echo of words even before he said them, and I wanted to cover his mouth and stop them from ringing out into the world, because maybe if I stopped them, they wouldn't change my life so horribly. But I couldn't move; my hands were frozen and my legs were frozen and every ounce of Slytherin composure was gone. And he said those worse.

"She's gone."

Someone was crying—since I was frozen, I couldn't turn to see who, and Teddy and Albus were staring at me, and I felt like an absolute monster because my mother was dead and I could not cry.

Hugo's shoulders straightened, and he looked around to Uncle Harry, Lily, Aunt Ginny, Neville, James—every single person except me, because I already knew that whatever he would say was true. His eyes stopped on Albus, because you always looked at Albus when you were about to say something that was terrifying to release into the world. Hugo was shaking, but Albus was staring at him with those wide green eyes, and something in them gave Hugo the strength to say what should have been spoken of years before.

"He doesn't deserve a trial, Uncle Harry. He deserves to be put in the darkest part of Azkaban, and he deserves to rot there."


End file.
